


Palm Lined Roads

by amongthieves



Category: L.A. Noire
Genre: Drunk in a field, Fluff, M/M, Requited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-28 03:37:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13895415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amongthieves/pseuds/amongthieves
Summary: A blue cop car shows up at the end of the road and Hershel begins to put out his cigarette. It pulls up behind Hershel’s car and Stephen Bekowsky steps out. For once, Hershel’s kind of glad to see the guy.“Biggs. What the hell is up? What did you radio me out for?”“That’s what the hell is up.” Hershel points to Cole’s jacket in the passenger seat, and then points out to the field. “Your friend, Phelps.” Bekowsky looks confused as ever, a common look for the guy, and he follows Hershel’s gaze out to the field.





	Palm Lined Roads

**Author's Note:**

> I used to be mega huge into the LA Noire fandom on tumblr. In fact, I roleplayed a Cole Phelps blog that amassed a large amount of followers when my writing was absolute shit. I had an image in my head, and I wanted to do these two justice.

Herschel stands at the edge of the cracked pavement, looking out over the horizon. The Californian golden fields stretch out farther than he can see, swaying palms lining the road. Out there, in the middle of it all, is Cole Phelps, drenched with the scent of booze and cigarettes. A common decency around town, but not for detectives like Cole Phelps. He’s the one of the kind goody two shoes that they haven’t ever seen before. 

Folks like Cole don’t get in trouble. Hershel sure as hell didn’t expect him to demand them to pull over and for him to get out, taking his jacket off and leaving it crumpled in the passenger’s seat. At first, he thought Cole was just gonna take a leak because he assumed liquor just went through the man, but it’s been over an hour. This isn’t the kind of stuff Hershel likes to get caught up in, he’s not much of a personal guy.

A blue cop car shows up at the end of the road and Hershel begins to put out his cigarette. It pulls up behind Hershel’s car and Stephen Bekowsky steps out. For once, Hershel’s kind of glad to see the guy. 

“Biggs. What the hell is up? What did you radio me out for?”

“That’s what the hell is up.” Hershel points to Cole’s jacket in the passenger seat, and then points out to the field. “Your friend, Phelps.” Bekowsky looks confused as ever, a common look for the guy, and he follows Hershel’s gaze out to the field. 

“What’s he doing out there? Farming?”

“I figured you’d take care of it. I gotta go, but I sure as hell wasn’t gonna leave our golden boy out there all alone with no car to take him home. Thanks, Bekowsky.” Hershel slaps him on the back, and before Bekowsky can question him, the car door slams shut and he’s already gone.

“Huh.” Stephen carefully steps down the shoulder of the road, the wheat reaching his shoulders as he starts to make his way out. The wind is warm on his skin, the day surprisingly cold for June. He almost considered a three piece this morning, but laughed when he realized he didn’t even have one in his wardrobe. 

He finds Cole, face sunburnt, lying on his back with his hands folded on his stomach. Stephen stops, watching his chest rise and fall. So he’s alive, at least. 

The wheat casts a shadow on half of his face. Cole opens one eye to look up at Stephen, and he smiles.

“Surprised to see you here, Bekowsky.”

“Yeah well, Hershel was tired of waiting for you to finish up whatever hippie shit you’re doing out here. What the hell is this, Cole? Hershel drove away with your jacket. You gonna let him get away with that?”

Cole shrugs, closing his eyes again. The heavy scent of bourbon wafts into the air, and Bekowsky crinkles his nose. It’s not the cheap shit, of course not, but there’s something about it that leaves a sour taste in his mouth. 

“Well come on, get your ass up. I’ll get you home, and your wife can clean you up.”

“She’s leaving me, Stephen.”

The casualness in Cole’s tone makes him flare with anger. Shouldn’t he be upset? Angry? yet, here he is, lying as though he’s a strung out junkie in the middle of the field.

“Cole, you ain’t on anything other than booze, are you?” He doesn’t think so, but it seems so odd for high strung Cole Phelps to be like this. It’s almost dizzying.

“No. I’m not _that_ stupid.”

It clicks in Stephen’s muddled head. Cole just doesn’t know how to handle this. Perfect Coe Phelps, with the perfect job, perfect wife and children, perfect house, perfect perfection streak, suddenly isn’t so perfect.

“Hey, Cole…”

“If you’re going to talk your tongue off, you can leave.” Bekowsky makes a face, he’s not _that_ talkative. Is he?

Against his better judgement, he takes off his jacket and sets it on the ground, taking the spot next to Cole. “Fuck it.” Bekowsky kicks out his feet, nudging off he shoes as he folds his arms behind his head and watches the clouds lazily float by. On a better thought, he takes out his flask and sits up against his elbows, knocking back several sips.

He offers it to Cole, who takes it without a word.

Within minutes, the flask is empty. 

“Why’s she leaving?” The cloud above them right now looks like a weird dog.

“She found out I’m gay. She refuses to allow me near out children.”

“Oh.”

“And I cheated on her. With Elsa.”

“Right. Didn’t you just say that you’re— you know.”

“Gay?” Cole barks with laughter, tossing Bekowsky’s empty flask onto his stomach. “Yeah. I just thought I could fix it.”

“Ah.”

“My thought exactly.”

“Sorry.” Bekowsky turns his head, looking at Cole with a frown. “I’ve never heard anyone say that out loud before. The… homo thing, I mean. I know guys who are but… you never hear it. You know?”

“I figured since you have no morals that you wouldn’t give a shit.”

“And now you’ve resorted to swearing. You’ve really fallen low, haven’t you, Phelps?” They exchange a chuckle, flashing genuine smiles at each other. Cole reaches out, his hand cupping Bekowsky’s neck. 

Bekowsky jerks away, clenching his jaw.

“I thought I knew your morals, Bekowsky. Isn’t this your standard?” To think there would be a day Cole Phelps would touch him, openly make assumptions like _that_. Stephen’s only thought about it twice, but it makes his stomach twist as Cole’s fingers pull away like they’ve touched a live wire. He hates that he’s always so easy to read, but it does the legwork for him, and for that he’s grateful.

Stephen reaches out, grabbing Cole’s wrist. “Yeah, but usually I make the first move.” Cole drunkenly smirks, and Stephen doesn’t mind leaning over and kissing him. Tasting the bourbon, the cigarette smoke, and not much else. It’s overpowering, and Stephen pulls back to cough.

As he turns his head to offer a lazy apology, Cole grabs the front of his shirt and pulls him back into a second kiss. It’s stiff, kind of what Bekowsky figures he’d be like, but he can feel Cole’s hand already pressing into the front of his slacks.

“No, no—” Stephen reaches down, stopping Cole’s hand from undoing his zipper. “I’m not letting you give me a hand job in a goddamn field. Not when you’re like this. My standard may be low, but I know yours ain’t, Cole.” 

Cole seems to to get it and pull his hand away, mouth returning back to Bekowsky’s.

Okay, so maybe he’s thought about it more than twice.

-

The sky turns pink in the distant, and Bekowsky knows it’s time to return. To cross the threshold back into LA, and into their regular lives.

“What are you going to do? Where are you going to stay?”

“I hadn’t given it much thought.” Cole stumbles into the passenger side of Bekowsky’s car, head hilted back as he closes his eyes again. 

“Crash at my place? It ain’t much, but I got a couch you can sleep on. There’s eggs in the fridge too.”

Cole turns his head to look at him, offering Bekowsky a weak smile. “Sure.”

The car comes to life and peels away from the shoulder, the radio on low as they drive back into town. As they park, Cole wakes from a nap he hadn’t realized he had been taking, and Bekowsky beacons him to follow. 

They make their way up the apartment stairs, and Cole drags behind him, eyes heavy.

Once they step into Stephen’s apartment, he’s suddenly all too aware of the mess. The suit thrown over the couch, the unwashed dishes on the counter, the bathroom he hasn’t cleaned for God knows how long. His mother would be ashamed of him, for more than the sole reason of kissing men.

“Let me grab you some blankets.” He doesn’t have an extra set, but he can sacrifice his blankets for the evening until he buys a new set for tomorrow. Disappearing into the bedroom to strip the sheets, he turns around to see Cole standing at his bedroom door. The sight of a disheveled Cole Phelps standing in front of him, in his apartment, has his heart in his throat. 

“Hey.” He tries to sound casual, and Cole knows this with his all knowing smile. Prick.

“Hey.” Cole mimics, reaching out to take the blankets from Stephen’s hands. He takes them over to Stephen’s bed and starts to make it.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m not sleeping on the couch. We both know this.”

Stephen snorts, rolling his eyes as he bumps Cole out of the way to make the bed. It’s not a great job, but it’s good enough. In the meanwhile, he tries not to watch Cole strip out the corner of his eye. Striped blue boxers. He digs it.

Cole crawls into bed, and Stephen call tell how heavy his body must feel.

“I got a spare toothbrush for you in the morning.”

“Thank you, Stephen.”

“I’ll make eggs too.”

Cole snorts into his pillow. 

“Hey, I make mighty fine eggs.”

“‘m sure you do.” 

Stefan strips down to his briefs and slips under the sheets beside him, pressing their bodies together. It’s difficult for him to hide his hard on, but as he’s about to make a lewd comment, he hears Cole snore.

It feels nice, having Cole beside him like this. He wonders how long this can go on for until one of them gets in trouble, but he doesn’t care. It’s a problem for another day.


End file.
